


Sharp (Balanced on the Edge of the Knife)

by CanisMajor1234



Series: Moments [1]
Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Adam and Frank are on the way to nice things, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, copious use of flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: "Pritchard stared up at the dark ceiling and blinked away the blurriness in his gaze. Five minutes would make exactly twenty-four hours since Panchaea. Twenty-four hours in freezing cold water with no chance at getting out- there wasn't much hope for survivors at that point. There had never been much hope for survivors in the first place, but Pritchard… he’d always been a realist, but for once he had dared to fucking hope."





	

The butterfly bandage on his eyebrow itched like something horrible. Pritchard wasn’t sure why. That particular bandage wasn’t the only one he was sporting, nor was it covering the worst wound. But for some reason, the little butterfly bandage across the little cut bisecting his eyebrow was giving him the most trouble.

Pritchard rubbed gingerly at the plaster-covered wound and tried to focus on the documents pulled up on his monitor. Nevermind the fact that the front entrance of the Sarif building had been blown to all hell less than twenty-four hours ago, Pritchard had work to do. Sarif Industries was being held together by a few fraying threads at that point, and the head of cyber-security was pulling the weight of two jobs trying to keep his side of things together.

_ “With all due respect,  _ sir _ ,” Pritchard spat, more irritated than he thought he’d ever felt. “My job is very much his job and his might as well be mine, they’re so closely related. If he proves to be incapable of compromising, then I don’t think-”  _

_ “Find a way to work it out,” Sarif said, dismissive, like the little war waging between his heads of security was a minor problem in the grand scheme of things. Honestly, it probably was. Still, his quick disregard stung like something fierce. “You’re both adults. I’m sure you can handle working together professionally without actually liking each other. Lord knows that’s pretty much the relationship between me and my board.” _

Sarif… Pritchard took a deep breath to steady himself. His former employer had been among the first to be confirmed dead. It hurt, when the news came in. Sure, the man had been a right bastard, but he’d still been Pritchard's boss. However professional their relationship, Pritchard still felt the weight of the loss like the weight of a ton of bricks.

Too bad the general public didn't seem to share the sentiment. Threw rocks and Molotovs through the glass of the front entrance. “Celebration” they’d called it. Pritchard had wanted to spit in their faces. He hadn't, because he was a professional who needed to keep his cool in the face of problems like that. He’d directed the police with all the formal ease of someone who handled this kind of thing every day.

He saved the breakdown for the quiet of his office. The door was locked; most employees had chosen to take a sick or vacation or mourning day, and Pritchard had let everyone in his and Jensen’s departments off the hook. Pritchard hadn't bothered to turn on any lights either. Just the light of the one computer he was working on, the company of endless lines of code and a long-cold cup of coffee. 

_ “Is this… a Scrabble cup?”  _

_ Pritchard held the mug in his hands and tried very hard not to laugh. He’d honestly forgotten his birthday, never really celebrated it since he left his house. He might have remembered an email from his mom in his inbox that morning, but all of that had really been a blur of waking up on his office couch and way too much coffee. _

_ “You could call it a Secret Santa gift,” Malik said, nodding towards where Jensen was talking with one of his department members. They had ‘M' and ‘J' cups, respectively. “I think he bought a cup for each of us.” _

Pritchard worked until his sight started going blurry; he couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or tears, and he honestly didn't care. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about anything. 

The rumors that Pritchard all but lived in his office were… partly true. As busy as he was, he’d accumulated enough overtime hours for his whole department. Sometimes he was just too tired to go home. Besides, the couch was comfortable enough.

_ It was weirdly warm when Pritchard woke. Not uncomfortably warm, but he had to keep his office cold so that his computers didn't have to strain to keep from overheating. Without a blanket, he really shouldn't be warm when he wakes up on his office couch.  _

_ The quilt was something homemade, the edges soft satin and the bulk of the material old, worn cotton. The colors were soft browns and tans, nondescript. It could have belonged to anyone. It could have belonged to Pritchard, if he wasn't entirely sure he didn't own such a piece. It was comfortable, though. Soft. And it smelled nice, like warmth and clean laundry, the slightest edge of copper and oil.  _

_ Pritchard's phone said that he could afford a few more hours of sleep. He wrapped the quilt more tightly around himself and went back to sleep _ . 

He woke up crying. 

Pritchard stared up at the dark ceiling and blinked away the blurriness in his gaze. Five minutes would make exactly twenty-four hours since Panchaea. Twenty-four hours in freezing cold water with no chance at getting out- there wasn't much hope for survivors at that point. There had never been much hope for survivors in the first place, but Pritchard… he’d always been a realist, but for once he had dared to fucking hope. 

Fingers twist into the rough cotton of the blanket, knuckles white with tension. Pritchard had put the quilt Jensen gave him up in a box beneath his desk, to be taken home later for safe keeping, but damn if Pritchard didn't want to get it out right at that moment. His heart felt caught in his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to make a noise. He couldn't even bring himself to wipe the tears away. 

Push through the pain. Pritchard put his phone on vibrate, threw himself into his work like it was the only thing he had left. For all he knew, it was. He had to lay Jensen’s picture down so that it didn’t distract him. He couldn’t afford to break down again.

_ “Have you ate yet?”  _

_ Pritchard started away from his work, hand instinctively going for the gun he kept under the desk. If Jensen noticed the motion, he didn't seem perturbed. He rested against the wall behind Pritchard's monitor, smirking. He still looked scuffed and dirty like he’d just come off a mission. He had a bag of takeout with him.  _

_ No, Pritchard hadn't ate yet, nor was he planning to until he finished patching the holes in their systems (again). They were too vulnerable, as they were. Pritchard felt as though they couldn’t afford to take a break. But his stomach grumbled loudly at the smell of the food, a pathetic sound that gave away his hunger.  _

_ Thai green curry on white rice, warm enough to have been picked up not long before the styrofoam take-out container was placed in Pritchard’s hands. He frowned as he took the first couple bites; the only Thai place he knew of was about halfway across the city. It wasn’t a short walk to get there and back, even for some of (in Pritchard’s skewed opinion) the best food in the city. It was his favorite food, too. Pritchard wondered how Jensen ever figured that out, and why he would go that far out of his way for it.   _

The incessant buzzing of a phone pulled Pritchard away from his works. He dismissed it- twice- trying to focus on the three months of backlogs that had piled up. On the third call he picked it up, snapping into the receiver. 

A frankly ridiculous amount of backround noise; Malik in her VTOL, probably, hovering close to the water. There was a bit of shouting over the roar of the engines before the doors skid shut and everything went quiet again.

“Pritchard-”

“Malik,” Pritchard cut her off, weary and a little impatient. “I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of clause about not calling anyone why flying unless it's an emergency.”

“Pritchard-”

“And unless it's a serious emergency, I'd really just like to-”

“Pritchard!” Malik snapped, and the hacker shut up quick. Her voice sounded watery, like she was about to cry and Pritchard, he dared to hope.

“He’s alive, Pritchard,” she gushed. “We found him and he’s  _ alive _ . Pulled him from the water not far away, I've no idea how we fucking missed him. We’re rushing him to a nearby hospital now. Any longer and he might have been-”

“Jensen?” Pritchard breathed with more hope than he dared to possess. It tightened in his chest, threatened to push all the air out of his lungs. 

Malik made a little, happy noise of assent. “We found him, Pritchard, and he's  _ alive _ .”

_ He was shaking.  _ Fuck _ , he was shaking. Jensen had gone off the grid hours ago, and no amount of struggling and searching could find him. Pritchard let out a string of curses so foul his mother would probably smack him if she heard, and _ she _ was the one to teach him how to cuss.  _

_ Nothing. There was nothing. Not a goddamned trace of him. Pritchard’s mind jumped on all the worst possibilities. Thoughts of bullet wounds and damaged augments came first to mind. Pritchard’s wrists ached in phantom sympathy at the memory. His fingers curled tight around the mouse. He felt like he was going to be sick. _

Pritchard caught the first flight to Vancouver. It was coach, and he paid from his own bank account to do it, but it was only a two hour flight and Pritchard was determined. Two hours felt like too long; Pritchard found it difficult to sit still, to keep from checking his phone every five seconds for updates on Jensen’s condition. According to Malik’s last message, he was in the ICU. A cold pit of fear settled in Pritchard’s stomach at the thought of Jensen dropping off the deep end while the hacker was en route. By some grace of God, Jensen had survived. The same twist of fate could snatch him away again.

_ Pritchard’s mother had been a firm Catholic, modern and no less devout for it. A programer and a scientist, she’d made it a point to go to church every Sunday, commit to every charity project and every holiday celebration. It had been admirable, really. She’d managed to do a lot of good. _

_ Her son, however, had never been particularly religious. Pritchard was a man of science. He liked explainable things, things backed by logic and data. It hadn’t created a rift between the two, thankfully; for the longest time, Pritchard hadn’t entirely been sure what he would do without his mother there, to listen and give advice. That is, until the day he didn’t have any other choice.  _

_ It felt like no one else really noticed. Of course they wouldn't, most of them hardly knew the woman. And as hard as Pritchard tried to push forward, push through it, he just couldn't. She was  _ gone _. It felt like someone had ripped a hole in his chest.  _

They had to restart his heart three times. Two before Pritchard even got there. The last one had been so nerve-wracking for the doctors that they’d been almost certain that he wasn't coming back. 

_ Pritchard had weeks of leave saved up. He could take them, if he needed to. But it felt wrong, abandoning work in the middle of the day like that. It wasn't the first time he’d lost someone like that. He should be handling it better. _

_ A blip, a message from Jensen along a private chat line. Short and too the point, but no less heartfelt for it; busy, but concerned. “I'm sorry for your loss. Take as much time as you need.” _

_ The hacker locked everything up without bothering to shut anything down and rushed to check out. _

He did, though. Somehow. By some fucking miracle, he’d come back. Pritchard's face was wet; he tucked it into Malik’s shoulder, clinging to her as he shook. Happiness, fear, relief- they churned angrily in Pritchard's stomach until he could barely figure out what he was feeling. He determinedly held back tears, though. He didn't want to ruin Malik's jacket.

_ It took him two weeks to get everything in order. The funeral and service, her will, what was left of her belongings- it all took time and energy and left Pritchard more drained than spending five consecutive days at work.  _

_ His sister got the house and most of their mother’s belongings, because she was expecting a child and the house, as small as it was, was a step up from the little apartment she had been living in. Pritchard got his mother’s laptop, a small box of personals, and her… _

A nurse gently placed a hand on Pritchard’s shoulder. She had a gentle, considerate smile. “Francis Pritchard?” she asked. “Mr. Jensen has you listed as next of kin.”

That time, Pritchard did break down and cry.

_ Her rosary. He looped it around his wrist and wondered why she’d left this item to him specifically. The last time he’d gone to church was years ago. He didn't even come home for Easter anymore.  _

_ But she’d left them for him. Authentic wood, worn smooth from the passing of a hundred hands. A little chip on one bead where a baby Emilia had gotten her mouth on it. Pritchard tugged his sleeve down over them and didn't take them off. _

He was pale. So fucking pale. Pritchard took one of Jensen’s hands in his own, pressed that little cross between them. A silent prayer. Pritchard had been saying a lot of those for this stupid man.

“In my professional medical opinion, your friend has some bullshit luck,” Doctor Song said, checking her clipboard against her own observations. The best doctor Detroit Medical had to offer. She’s flown over immediately after they’d designated a hospital to take the survivors to- even if they’d only found one. “Despite the shaky start, it looks like he should recover fairly well. We'll have to wait until he wakes up to be sure there was no lasting internal damage, of course.”

Pritchard gave his best approximation of a smile; he was just so  _ tired _ . All he wanted to do was put his head down and nap a bit, content in the knowledge that Jensen was alive and safe. Doctor Song patted his shoulder, a motherly gesture, comforting in its old familiarity. 

“Feel free to get some rest in here,” she offered from the doorway, hand hovering over the light switch. “No one will be around to bother you for a while yet.” 

_ “You need to rest.” _

_ It went to show how tired Pritchard was, that it took way too long for the words to register in his brain. He pushed carefully away from his computer so that he could look Jensen in the eye without craning his neck.  _

_ “In a few more minutes?” he bargained. “Twenty lines. I can even run diagnostics in the morning.” _

_ A twitch of a frown. Jensen hid a sigh I'm a deep breath, reached over to tap the clock on the computer. “It is morning, Frank, and you've clearly been here way too long. Are you going to close it down now, or so I have to have Sarif tell you to go home before you start endangering your own health?”  _

And no one was. Not for the next twenty-four hours. Pritchard was honestly surprised that the press hadn't gotten word of the sole survivor sooner, considering how public the Panchaea collapse had gone. There were multiple instances of reporters trying to push of sneak their way to Jensen’s room, only to be diverted by hawk-eyed Malik or a very, very pissed Doctor Song. 

_ “Suddenly concerned about my health, Adam?” Pritchard snarked, shutting down his station. “Who are you and what have you done to my co-worker?” _

_ Jensen smiled wryly, rubbing with one hand at the short hairs of his nape. “I… May or may not have an alternative motive. Concussion. Doc says I probably shouldn't be alone for a little while, just in case.” _

_ At least he had the decency to sound guilty about it. Pritchard shoved his laptop into his bag. His jacket was zipped up to his neck; no matter how tired Pritchard was,  _ no one _ but him drove Fenrir. He grabbed his helmet off the table. No extra. Jensen would have to make due without one.  _

_ “Fine. But you're buying dinner.” _

Speculation was rampant. Pritchard learned to just ignore the rumors and outlandish headlines after the first newsletter was released. He kept at Jensen's side, in his tiny bubble of sterile white walls and black and green lines of code as he waited for the man to wake up. And he would wake up. Of that much, Pritchard was certain.

_ “Wake up, Jensen,” the hacker snapped, flicking the man on the forehead. They were both still tired, but the concern about Jensen’s head easily outweighed Pritchard’s exhaustion. “Concussion, remember? Every two hours.” _

A slight increase in heart rate. The sound of a shitty hospital gown scratching against sheets. Pritchard looked up from the program he’d been working on to see foggy gold eyes blinking into alertness. Despite the surprise and relief bubbling in his chest and threatening to burst forth, Pritchard tried to keep a level head. He clicked the button to call the nurse, smiled reassuringly when those wandering eyes landed on him.

_ Sleepy gold eyes blinked up at him. Pritchard got to watch the internal mechanics clicking into place. It should have been a frightening sight. Instead, it was… relieving. And- though Pritchard banished the thought as soon as it came up- beautiful. _

“Welcome back.” 


End file.
